


Bruises, Bitemarks and Blatant Manipulation

by thatswhatpeopledo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Actual fuckery, F/M, Inspired by Fanfiction, Mind fuckery, Oneshot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatswhatpeopledo/pseuds/thatswhatpeopledo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Shememmy's Side of The Angels BBC Sherlock Fanfiction- Wattpad. If you haven't read it, DO SO IMMEDIATELY. <br/>Contains smut, smut and more smut.<br/>Continues after Chapter 70- Forced Seduction<br/>Because everyone needs a little Moriemy smut in their life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jim Moriarty X Emily Schott</p>
<p>DISCLAIMER: I do not own Emily Schott, or Moriarty. Created for Shememmy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruises, Bitemarks and Blatant Manipulation

"There. That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

My breath hitches hard in my throat, and my head swims violently, as if I've been deprived of oxygen for a long period of time. It was just a kiss, I tell myself.

"This is quite the predicament, don't you think?"

I've been here before.

I need him, I want him, but I can't have him. No-one can have Jim Moriarty. I've got to get away from him, to clear my head, to focus. I need to make sure that I am in control, and that he doesn't win. I can't let him win. Not now, not after I've done so much to distance myself from him and all his sadism, all his instability, all his madness. It's too destructive. 

I push him off me, twisting until I'm in a sitting position. He looks a me, head tilted to one side, curious-

"Why the sudden change of intention?"

I edge away from him, because although his words are simple, the tone behind it is so dangerous it's almost tangible. He chuckles at my reaction, and the noise is like adding gasoline to an already burning fire; genuine longing flashes through my body, and I have to grit my teeth to press it down. 

"I'm not going to let you win this game, Jim Moriarty."

He grins, savagely, all pointed teeth and unspoken intention:

"Jim, please- there's really no need for such excessive formalities."

"Why are you doing this? You're narcissistic enough to believe that intimacy is a waste of time and effort." 

 

He stands up, brushing down his suit and walking over to me, looking down. His eyes are dark and continuous; flitting across my flushed face, tense body and clenched fist. Suddenly, and without warning, he wrenches me into a standing position, slamming me for a second time against the wall and forcing my head up to face his with one hand, his grip unforgiving against my throat. I don't fight back, this time. I keep myself still, and unreactive. His hand tightens around my neck, and I'm reminded painfully of myself and Millie. His accent thickens, as he near growls-

"Sex, Emily, is a form of insanity. It clouds judgement. Fogs reason. It makes the most stable, anchored individual lose control of themselves, if only for a second, as they rut and claw and crave to satisfy their animal side," he breaks off momentarily, as his other hand rides under my shirt, cold fingers tracing the ridges in my spine. I arch my back, away from his touch. "And I am an expert when it comes to insanity."

"You want me as insane as you."

"No-the world can barely handle one of me as it is," he says, smiling darkly. His hand drops down, running lightly over my hipbone, before clamping down and pressing bruises into my skin, "I want to see you lose your control, Emily, without being intoxicated. I want you acutely aware of the situation: every touch, every move, every action. Ownership is everything."

I laugh, harshly-

"You're never going to own me."

"Oh, I will. Not now. Not next time- and there will be a next time. But I'll be breaking down your barriers, finding the faults in your mindset, chipping away at you until you split apart. And then, I'll kill you. Do you want to know why?"

"Do enlighten me."

"Because then you'll be submissive. Just like everyone else. Dull and predictable."

He says the last words slowly, drawling them in a distorted Irish melody. 

"I'm not the submissive type."

"Good," he says, simply, "I like to play with my toys before I break them."

I consider breaking his neck there and then.

"I'm not your-"

But I don't get to finish, because he's kissing me again, roughly, every predatory sweep of his tongue claiming my mouth as his own. I try to resist, but find my resolve crumbling alarmingly quickly, and I find myself responding. I've never met anyone who derives such pleasure from causing harm and hurt; and the sick thing is, I like it. Although he's no longer holding me by the throat, his hand is still possessive; gripping my jaw with such force it's painful, pressing my head to his, so our lips are crushed together. He breaks away to draw breath, but only momentarily, not allowing me to recollect myself, and he begins the assault again, teeth and tongue slowly working his madness into me, through my mouth. His other hand slips under my jean waistband, running down the contour of my thigh, and I snarl at him, grabbing at his arm, trying to pull it away- but I can't concentrate properly with him kissing me, or find the strength to stop him. Without warning, he presses his knuckles against me, causing me to jolt upwards, a spike of icy craving coursing through my veins. And then, before I can react, he pushes a finger into me, oblivious to my hiss of protest. I grip his arm very hard, hoping that I'm causing him some degree of discomfort. He slides in a second finger, then forces them upwards with such force it's painful. I keep my face blank and expression devoid of emotion, in an attempt at concealing the longing that's raging through me internally. I've got to stay in control. He regards me with mild interest, pulling away to observe my reaction. I raise an eyebrow, an act of defiance. He adds another finger. I shut my eyes, tightly- I can't look at him, because then he'd see how furious I am with my own body for betraying me now, just when I need it to be resisting. He leans in, his teeth working at my neck, splitting the skin and drawing blood, red and purple blossoming like macabre flowers. He licks over the graze, temporarily soothing, before biting down again, harder. Each quick-paced punctuation is almost surgical in it's precision, but at the same time rough and fueled by primal desire, and the sharply painful craving it elicits is so potent, an involuntary noise of want is pulled from my throat. He stops, lifts his mouth away from my neck and pulls out his fingers, looking at me with eyes that are almost black with lust. Even so, I can still see the intricacy behind them: the ever-present insanity, constantly moving, never settled.

There's a flurry of movement, and we've moved from the living room area to my bedroom, purely for functionality. He half throws me onto the bed, and shrugs out of his jacket, loosening his tie and discarding it on the floor. And then there's contact again, his full weight on top of me, and I can feel each shallow heartbeat through the thin material of his shirt.

"Like I said before. Ownership is everything."

I'm not going to be dominated, not now. The urge to fight him overrides almost everything, aside from the desire to satiate the building tension in my abdomen.  
I force him underneath me, straddling his waist and lean forward, my hands pressing down on his chest, preventing him from sitting up. His suit trousers are tented in obvious arousal, but he's still in control, and he grins up at me, wolf-like, and says-

"I'm so glad you decided to fight back. Really, I am- it would be exceptionally boring if you didn't even try to be a challenge..."

My t-shirt is dragged over my head, and I listen to the noise of fabric hitting the floor. I'm past feeling self-conscious, and deft fingers unclasp the back of my bra. I need to feel skin against skin, and so I abandon my dignity and rip his shirt open, satisfied at the noise of the button tearing through the fabric. He rolls his eyes-

"That shirt was worth more than your monthly apartment rent."

"Good."

And then he pulls me roughly down to meet his lips once more, his hands sliding up my sides, over my exposed shoulder blades, holding me in place- there's no gentleness behind his actions, no care, no sentiment, it's simply raw instinct. He lifts me up, teeth trailing down my neck and collar bone, down to my stomach, when he bites down on the soft skin, leaving what I know will be impressive bruises tomorrow. I hesitate, momentarily blinded by the sensation, and he takes full advantage of it, twisting me underneath him. I'm panting at this point, unable to stop my lungs clawing for oxygen, and there's the noise of zips and more fabric falling to the ground. The rushing in my ears stops for a moment, and he looks me up and down-

"Hm. Such a shame. All this," he says, gesturing at my body briefly with his hand, "Gone, soon. Stiff and cold... A waste, really. But some things are unavoidable."

"How romantic."

"Níl mé ag duine rómánsúil"

I blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden change from English to Irish Gaelic. He laughs at my confusion-

"Bewilderment doesn't suit you."

And then he wraps my legs around his waist, capturing my mouth in one more consuming kiss, splitting my lip with one clamp of his canines. The sharp taste of iron fills my mouth, and suddenly I want nothing more than to give in, because my mind is tired from craving, and over-stimulated to the point of submission. I kick him with my heels, urging him on, and he narrows his eyes, thrusting into me harshly, a justifying tit for tat. I make a noise I didn't think I was capable of making, and my head tips back, damp curls brushing my back. He doesn't move for a moment, his fingers digging grooves into my hips, and there's a second of silence, broken only by ragged breathing. And then he picks up the pace, almost pulling out completely before slamming back inside me, repeating the action again, and again, with genuine malice, with such force my shoulders pound against the headboard of the bed with each movement. I roll my hips instinctively, meeting his pelvic bone with satisfying friction, and he lets out a low hiss between his teeth, the first indication of his domineering control starting to unravel. Strands of dark hair have fallen across his face, and he scarcely blinks, pupils blown wide and dilated. It's not graceful, or forgiving; it's destructive, and it's become a stand-off: whose body will give in first. He flips me over with apparent ease, angles me downwards, and forces himself in deeper than before, the combination of pain and pleasure pooling in my stomach, threatening to push me off the edge. It continues, building in momentum, and I'm almost sure that I'm going to be the first one to give in when suddenly, he pulls me into a sitting position, on top of him. I lift my hips, then drive them down, and watch with a growing sense of triumph as his eyelids flutter shut, as sensation takes over.

The action, the friction, the feeling of his fingers scratching lines down my back fuel the building tension, and I'm making noises that sound more like I'm being killed, slowly; sharp moans of pain, sharper intakes of breath. I can't help it anymore. I know what he means now; I can't think, I can't see, I'm totally consumed by rutting need, and I understand now how this is, quite literally a form of insanity.

The climax hits me before I'm ready. It washes over me, searing white, and I cling on to him-for stability, to stop this foreign sensation pulling everything I am away from me. I bite down on his shoulder, the sounds coming from deep in my chest near screams. 

"Isn't it funny how the noises of acute pleasure are most similar to the sound of agony, of torture?" he says, in the distance, his voice strained with near-release.

I'm incapable of speaking.

A few more thrusts and he comes undone, and it's the strangest thing to witness. The man of such incredible danger and manipulation, falling apart, just for a minute, as a similar climax rakes through his body. Unlike me, he makes no noise; he is wordless in his intensity, and wraps his arms around me, fingers leaving dents in my arms, as he takes in a deep, shuddering breath, panting.

And then it's over. 

He lets go, pulls out, and moves away, and I fall back into the bed, small tremors coursing through my body.

I listen to the disjointed breathing next to me.

Then-

"Two-one to me. You're not very good at this game, are you?"


End file.
